


Your love was handmade for somebody

by seasonschange



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Artist Jack, Artist Rhys, Bullying, Closeted Character, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Misunderstandings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Rating May Change, Rhys POV, Slow Burn, Warnings May Change, misunderstood jack is misunderstood, secret friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 08:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10213544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasonschange/pseuds/seasonschange
Summary: Twice held back, Jack's beginning his senior year at Pandora High School with very few expectations, and a lot of contempt for the system and the student body, who alternately hate and admire him in return.When Rhys enrolls that same year, an openly gay junior, Jack is drawn to him for reasons he understands all too well. They're the same, after all, and Jack's secretly been craving a more meaningful kind of companionship than his mates' from the football team.Now, if only he could get the opportunity to exchange one word with the guy before the whole damn school tries to interfere for"Rhys' own good"— that'd be great.





	

**Author's Note:**

> me @my 2,000,000 other wips:

* * *

Hand flying over the yellowish paper of his sketchbook, Rhys laid down the first lines in a succession of short, jolting movements.

He drew a line to represent the grass, and added the outlines of a couple of running figures. Then he looked up again and measured the football field ahead of him, studying the small group of players busy stretching not far below him.

It was Tuesday afternoon, and while most of Rhys’ classmates had gone home, those who’d joined the football team had stayed behind for after school practice. As for Rhys, he’d taken an extracurricular art class and was currently working on his assignment. He had to submit his sketchbook for the end of the month, and it had to be entirely filled by then.

He’d thought coming down to the football field would give him enough material to chose from for his next sketch, after every previous page in his sketchbook had been filled with furniture from his bedroom, a couple of portraits of his mom and a study of his cat, and a bunch of views that caught his eye on his way to school. So up in the bleachers, hunched over his sketchbook, Rhys drew for almost an hour straight. He wasn’t particularly good at it, but he loved immersing himself in the task nonetheless; it helped him get out of his head, if only for a moment, and that alone was worth the trouble and self-doubt every time he had to look twice at his own handiwork.

He was actually so absorbed in his drawing that he didn’t notice his name being called out loud until the fifth occurrence.

“Rhys!”

Head snapping up, Rhys looked around himself sheepishly, left then right. But the bleachers were still empty, save for himself. Then he cast an unsure look at the group down on the field.

One of the players, a senior Rhys was positive didn’t know Rhys even existed, let alone that he attended the same school — had broken away from the rest of the group and was marching towards him.

He was easily taller than Rhys, and his uniform was stretching over his wide chest — as opposed to Rhys’ baggy T-shirt that hung, misshapen, from his thin shoulders.

He looked menacing as he made a determined beeline for Rhys’ position. The latter felt his heart drop to the bottom of his stomach, and he had to fight the urge to spring to his feet and make a run for it.

This couldn't be good.

“Hey! Rhys!”

The boy started climbing the bleachers two by two, and Rhys almost dropped his sketchbook when he stood up so fast his head spun.

He had to get out of here before—

“Wait, wait, _wait_ ,” the words tumbled out of the guy's mouth between two deep intakes of breath, visibly winded by the effort of escalating all the seats. He finally reached his row and to Rhys' relief, he cracked a smile. Although it looked kind of wicked. “You’re Rhys, right?”

Rhys nodded jerkily, before smiling nervously in return. It was one of his patented 80% grimace, 20% zygomatic muscles spasms. 

He felt like a dork standing there with his sketchbook clutched in one hand, the other hanging awkwardly at his side, and already he was frantically looking for an excuse to get the hell out of there before the insults and other tasteful innuendos about his sexuality started flying. Not that he'd been harassed much since his parents had moved here. The majority of the students had actually been as welcoming or disinterested as the kids from his previous school. Save for the odd catcall in the hallway between classes, and a rude gesture directed at him once by some freshman idiot desperate to look funny in front of his friends.

All of that could still turn into something far worse in an isolated place, and with someone twice his body mass. Rhys wasn't naive; people still got beaten up for being out, and not much assistance was to be expected from any bystanders, especially at school.

"So," the guy said, dragging out the vowel until it was a four-syllables word instead of one, startling Rhys mid fight-or-flight scheming. "Wanna join us, maybe?"

The guy shoved his hands in the pockets of his track pants, seemingly unperturbed by Rhys' continuous silence and general aura of cold distrust.

Rhys blinked at him owlishly. If anything was more blatant about him than his homosexuality (in that he took very good care of his hair and body, and couldn't remember a time when he _wasn't_ out), it had to be that he was not the sports type of guy. His legs were too long and skinny and often got in the way instead of helping. As the saying goes, he had two left feet. As for the upper body, there was little to no strength or any definition to be found, as demonstrated loud and clear by his baggy shirt.

"Are... are you short on players?" He ventured, voice a bit hoarse from disuse. He  _had_ been sitting on his own for over an hour, now.

"Nah," the guy shrugged. "You were just standing out there, all alone, and it was starting to creep me out. C'mon!"

With that simple explanation, the guy snatched the sketchbook from Rhys' hand and tossed it away on a nearby bench. Rhys' protest died somewhere between his throat and the outside world when next, it was his forearm that was unceremoniously grabbed.

When the guy led him down the steps towards the field, and didn't — as Rhys had first been expecting — proceed to beat the shit out of him for whatever bigoted reason — Rhys felt himself relax, and started to follow with a little more enthusiasm and bounce in his step.

He  _had_ been all alone.

And he  _did_ wonder what it'd feel like for a nerd like him to play with the 'guys' even once, especially if they were all as chill as this one.

* * *

 

The guy — "I'm Jack, by the way!" — made an obvious effort to keep Rhys included in the next couple of games.

Rhys could tell Jack's friends weren't especially thrilled, and even took turns unnecessarily roughing him up a couple of times. But thanks to Jack's constant if distant support; a wink, a wave, or often just calling Rhys' name in a buoyant and showy display — Rhys stood his ground. And after he managed to outrun one of their scariest players (Rhys was convinced the guy was the result of a forbidden genetic cross between human and elephant), they started to warm up to him. Gradually but surely.

It took Rhys completely by surprise when at the end of their practice, he stood there on the field with the rest of the players in his now grass-stained jeans and shirt, still laughing and breathing hard, and realized that he hadn't had that much fun in a very long time. 

Once he got his breath back, he became worried about his sketchbook being stolen or damaged by the sudden gusts of wind rising across the football field, and jogged quickly up the steps of the bleachers to fetch it. Some of the guys noticed, and when he came back, they asked to see, already snickering and elbowing each other. Rhys had expected the laughs and the jokes and the teasing, so he didn't mind. It was nothing he hadn't heard before, and they weren't _total_ douchebags about it, either. 

Eventually, they returned the sketchbook to its owner. Rhys took it back gratefully as the players slowly directed their efforts towards retreating to the locker rooms, and when he turned on his heels, all ready to head back home himself — he narrowly missed smashing his nose into Jack's solar plexus.

Damn, the guy was tall.

And still rather intimidating.

Rhys swallowed audibly, but this time his smile felt a little less forced; a little more genuine. It was thanks to the adrenaline still coursing through his veins after the unexpectedly enjoyable workout.

Jack opened his mouth, and then stumbled to the right when one of his friends bumped into his side with full force. Rhys didn't know how both guys didn't end up knocked over on the ground. The other guy had been wearing most of his football gear the whole time, and the protective piece of his shoulder had to have hurt where it collided with Jack's unprotected side. 

Rhys winced in sympathy.

"Man, why did you throw this poor guy to the wolves? You're always so mean to the juniors!" Jack's friend half-guffawed, half-whined. "Sorry, dude," the guy felt compelled to add in the least sincere tone there could be, facing Rhys this time, and giving him a very condescending pat on the shoulder.

Rhys cracked The Grimace again. He had no clue what the guy was referring to, but it seemed rude to demand an explanation. Instead, he chanced a quick glance at Jack as his friend threw his arm around his shoulders and started pulling him towards the opposite side of the field.

Thankfully, soon as he met Jack's gaze all of Rhys' confusion evaporated. Jack cracked a half smile when their eyes met, and gave him a conspiratorial wink.

It was clear for Rhys that Jack's invitation hadn't been a cruel, teenage attempt at public humiliation. If anything, Jack hadn't teased him even once. It had been everyone else.

So why would his friends blame Jack of all people of being a bully? It was a mystery.

Before Rhys could think harder on the strange perception these people had of their own friends, the wind rose once more and tore away the cover of his sketchbook along with his latest sketch, and sent the pages flying across the field.

Rhys ran after them.

* * *

 


End file.
